Radiohead

Dunno if there were too many Red Bulls in the backstage rider this evening, but something has given Thom Yorke wiiings. In fact, along with Thom’s frantic making-shapes-in-the-air dancing, there are many factors to indicate this is not a garden-variety Radiohead experience... Phil Selway on the sampler, doing some unforseen lounge-y shuffle, Colin Greenwood actually laughing, Ed O’Brien looking as if he’s having fun. Perhaps it’s the imminent arrival of two new Radiohead babies, but tonight there is an unmistakeable air of frivolity in the Point. In fact, the show feels surprisingly intimate, a space too small and inadequate to contain the band’s gargantuan genius.

Their plethora of boy's toys may have gotten more expensive or impressive over the years, but for the first time in a while, there are glints of the young, bleached, arrogant band that a fortunate few got to see in Dublin’s Rock Garden over 10 years ago, circa-Pablo Honey. Seemingly freed of the weight of neurosis and pained, jaded frustration, Yorke is a loose-limbed delight, delivering a set, though comprised of material that ultimately soundtracked his nervous breakdown, full of exuberance, youth and hope.

As well as neatly showcasing some new material (and let me say, it all sounds highly promising, an indication of the band venturing even further into Prefuse 73/Matmos territory), the night is largely an impressive and highly gratifying walk-back through their pristine rock repertoire. When you think you’ve heard every hit they have, (among them ‘Fake Plastic Trees’, ‘Lucky’, ‘There There’, ‘Climbing Up The Walls’ and ‘My Iron Lung’) the strains of ‘Karma Police’ start up to indicate you’re wrong.

As for the show’s end? Picture two grown men on all fours frantically twiddling knobs on pedals to a rapt audience and you’ll get the gist of Radiohead's towering genius. When all is sung and done, all that can be seen onstage are the innocently twinkling lights on the machines that were touched by the hands of gods.

Photos by Liam Sweeney